The Capitol Game

by Brian Haig

  “I know it, okay? Point is, Jack can kill you with a toothpick. He can get into and out of Baghdad, in wartime, without being detected. He did that, you know.”

  “Uh, no, we—”

  “And check his record from Panama. He hunted down Noriega. It was Jack who kept him from escaping, chased him into the Vatican embassy.”

  They walked and talked a little more before Morgan asked, “You got a copy of this file?”

  “You’re kidding, right? You asked why I’m afraid of Jack and I’m telling you. I wouldn’t want him carrying a grudge against me.”

  “That all you’ve got?”

  “That’s barely an appetizer, Morgan,” Charles said, picking up his pace a bit. “Now shut up.”

  Martinelli was about thirty yards behind the two men, squeezing the steering wheel as he weathered a symphony of honks and angry gestures. New Yorkers! He remembered the old joke about the tourist totally lost in the city and he stops and asks a native for directions, saying, “Aside from ‘get screwed,’ could you please tell me the way to the Empire State Building?”

  He cursed and wished Morgan and Charles would pick up the pace. The taxi driver directly on his rear was nearly leaning on his horn. A quick glance in the rearview mirror—the driver wore a turban and had a thick Sikh beard. Amazing how quickly even foreigners dropped their hospitable native manners and adopted the surly rudeness of this city.

  To his left and right, he could see Rivers and Nickels following on foot, both on opposite sidewalks, blending in quite nicely.

  Then without warning, Morgan and Charles hung a right onto a one-way street with traffic going the wrong way. Martinelli started to follow before a fusillade of horns reminded him it was one-way.

  He uttered another loud curse, backed up, and began driving to the next block to try and pick them up again at the far end of the street. The Sikh was leaning outside the car window, howling obscenities, his middle finger stuck in the air.

  They were on West 45th, passing theaters now. The best Morgan could tell, Charles never once glanced back, or even looked around to check if they were being tailed. Never once gazed at reflections in storefront windows, never bent down to tie his shoes and steal a furtive peek. Could he have overestimated this guy?

  Morgan pressed his coat button, activated the mike, and asked, “Where are we going?”

  “Shut up.”

  “I just want to know.”

  “You’ll know when we get there.”

  They took ten more steps when, without warning, Charles grabbed his arm and yanked him into the covered entrance of a theater. Morgan hadn’t been paying attention to the overhead billboards; he hadn’t a clue which theater, or which play. He kept his mouth shut as Charles smoothly handed two tickets to the doorman, and they were inside.

  They had apparently arrived right on time for the start of the show. Only a few stragglers were still milling around the lobby, exchanging gossip or whatever. He saw that they were in the Gerald Schoenfeld Theatre, and according to the large poster on a stand-up easel, the night’s entertainment was A Chorus Line. “What are we doing here?” he demanded.

  For the first time Charles faced him. “You look pale, Morgan. Don’t tell me you’ve seen Chorus Line before?”

  “Well… no, I haven’t.”

  “Good. It’s sold out. I paid a fortune for these tickets. Thought you’d be more appreciative.”

  Morgan was pleased that he had lured Charles into naming the play before it struck him what Charles had done and why. Who cared if the trailers knew where they were? It was sold out, so they couldn’t get inside. Such a simple, obvious ploy, why had nobody thought of it?

  Charles seemed to sense what he was thinking. “Worried about your friends out on the sidewalk?”

  “I told you I came alone,” Morgan insisted without the barest hint of conviction.

  The final curtain bell was ringing and the last loiterers in the lobby began a mad hustle for their seats. Charles didn’t budge. “Are we going in to watch the show or not?” Morgan asked, speaking loudly so the boys out on the street could hear.

  “Come with me.”

  “Where?”

  “The men’s room.”

  “Why? You want me to hold it for you?”

  Charles didn’t smile or in any way reply to the infantile wisecrack, just began walking quickly to the men’s room. They could hear the orchestra blaring the opening notes of the theme song. The restroom was empty when they entered. Charles moved toward a urinal, reached down to his front, then spun around with a .38 caliber in his right hand. “Now, we’re gonna do this my way, Morgan. Don’t get nervous. I won’t shoot you unless you make me.”

  Morgan’s mouth gaped open in shock. “A gun,” he gasped loudly.

  “I believe that’s what it’s called, yes.”

  Morgan balanced his feet and tightened his grip on the briefcase. “What’s this? A two-bit holdup?”

  Charles studied Morgan’s face a moment. “I told you to come alone, and you’ve turned this into a street orgy. I warned you not to wear a wire, and you’re a walking DJ. You’re making me nervous, Morgan. This”—he began shaking the gun—“is to make sure you don’t break any more rules.”

  Morgan adjusted his expression to one of resignation. “Hey, pal, I have no intention of getting myself clipped, not over fifty grand. Hell, it’s not even mine. Here,” he said, taking a step closer and jamming the briefcase in Charles’s direction—another five feet and he’d be all over him. A quick kick in his groin, a chop across the forearm, then he’d make him eat that gun.

  Charles immediately stepped backward and the gun popped into Morgan’s face. “Don’t. That would be very stupid.” The sound of the hammer being cocked was loud and ominous.

  “All right.”

  “Step back.”

  Morgan stepped back.

  “Put down that case.”

  Morgan placed the case on the floor. Whatever the man with the gun wanted.

  “Good boy. Now take off your clothes.”

  “What?”

  “The clothes, Morgan. Remove them.”

  “Forget it. No. That’s just not going to happen.”

  Charles leaned his back against the wall. “Listen to me. I offered you a deal, and I intend to honor it. But on my terms, not yours.”

  When Morgan did nothing, Charles leaned toward him and announced very loudly, “Listen up, fellas. Your friend Morgan is about to blow this deal. Because of his silly modesty, you’re not going to learn things about Wiley you couldn’t imagine. It’ll cost you fifty thousand to get nothing.”

  “Who are you talking to?” Morgan asked. This time, not only was he not convincing, it sounded asinine.

  “Jack has a nasty scandal in his past, Morgan. Very nasty. It’s everything you’ve been hunting for, and then some. But you’ll never find it without me.”

  Well, what the hell, Morgan thought. Charles had already made a fool of him—twice—so what was a little more mortification? Only one thing was worse than this: after all this time, effort, and money to come back empty-handed. With a great show of reluctance he removed his jacket and tossed it to Charles. Then his shirt, his shoes, and his trousers, until he was naked but for his socks and underpants. He couldn’t remember a more humiliating moment. “Get into that stall,” Charles ordered, waving the gun at the far one along the wall.

  Looking very aggravated, Morgan dutifully entered the stall, and Charles closed the door behind him. He could hear Charles walk around, then the sounds of him entering the adjoining stall and sitting down. “What next?” Morgan asked, wondering how it came to this.

  Twenty-five years in the CIA. He had survived so many dangerous encounters, outsmarted so many bad guys, and this amateur, Charles, had the money, and he had the gun, with Morgan stripped down to his undershorts in a public bathroom. He cursed himself for turning on the mike. The entire episode had been broadcast to the boys out on the street. He knew the ribbing was going
to be absolutely horrible, and he was right. “What are you doing?” he asked, after a long moment with no answer.

  “Counting my money, Morgan. Since you lied, I want to be sure you haven’t cheated me. Now, shut up.”

  “It’s there, all of it,” Morgan insisted with as much force as he could muster, given the circumstances. “You can trust me.”

  “Twenty thousand, one hundred. Twenty thousand, two hundred…”

  The trail crew heard every word until the instant Morgan, confronting a gun, disrobed to his skivvies. They knew which theater they were in, knew it was A Chorus Line, they heard the request to enter the bathroom, and they heard the gun come out.

  Then, silence.

  After a frantic, whispered huddle, Nickels took the first shot and scrambled to the ticket window. “Please, just listen,” he said to the pale, wrinkled old man smiling back from behind the thick glass divider. “I flew out all the way from Oregon.”

  “Oregon? That right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Long flight. Pretty state, I hear. Never been out there myself.”

  “This is my life’s dream.”

  “Yeah, good choice. Great show.”

  “Yes, and, well, I have to fly back tomorrow.” Nickels shrugged his shoulders and produced a tragic frown. “My assistant was supposed to order tickets. The useless cow screwed it up.” He held up his arms and looked perfectly crestfallen.

  “No kiddin’?” the old man grunted. “Know what?”

  “What?”

  The old man tapped a skinny finger on the SOLD OUT sign.

  “Aw, come on. You and I know you’ve got extra tickets back there. A few set aside for cast members, maybe, or there’s always a few no-shows. Always. One is all I need, just one,” he pleaded, pressing a trio of hundred-dollar bills against the window. “Nobody will know,” he whispered with a sly wink. “Not a soul.”

  The old man took his eyes off the money and stared at Nickels. “Look up,” he said.

  With a befuddled expression, Nickels’s eyes moved up. “That,” the old man announced, pointing at the lens, “is a camera. Reason it’s there is to keep jerkoffs like you from corruptin’ a sweet old man like me.”

  Nickels looked like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t think of the words.

  The old man pressed his hands on the counter and bent forward. “Why don’t you smile for the nice man inside before you take a hike, pal?”

  Nickels had struck out, and he edged away, then walked halfway down the block, where Rivers was waiting. “Take your best shot.” He added, “Be careful of the old man. A real wise guy.”

  Rivers nodded, then walked briskly to the window. He tapped the nightstick softly against his left leg as he walked, and with the other hand reached up and straightened his NYPD cap.

  The old man looked up and offered a nice smile. “What can I do for you, Officer?”

  Rivers straightened his husky shoulders. “The precinct just got a call from someone inside the theater.”

  “Yeah? About what?”

  “About a robbery taking place inside.”

  The old man leaned forward on his elbows. “A stickup?”

  “With a gun and everything. Go figure. I was told to check it out.”

  “So what? You want I should let you in?”

  “What do you think? Yeah, and make it quick.”

  “Where’s your partner?” The old man’s eyes narrowed and shifted left and right. “Don’t you got any backup?”

  “Handling another call. Busy night.” An officious-looking but slightly impatient smile. “Listen, Gramps, you gonna let me in or not?”

  “Hey, I’m not givin’ you no trouble. Hell, two of my kids are NYPD. The Hannigan boys, Danny and Joey. Maybe you know ’em.”

  “I, uh, might have heard the name. Quit gabbing. I’m in a hurry here.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet,” he replied, shaking his head. “Hey, what precinct you with?” the old man asked, maintaining the same unhurried, casual air.

  Rivers had to pause a moment. “The Fifteenth.”

  “Then why’s that badge you’re wearin’ say you’re with the Seventh?”

  “I was just transferred. What do you care? Do I need to call the precinct? A life could be at stake.”

  “Reason I’m askin’ is, the theater district’s covered by Midtown North.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Reason I know that is ’cause this little button I just pushed, it connects me directly to the precinct house. Usually takes those boys about two beats to get here.”

  Rivers stared back, obviously startled. “You did what?”

  “You heard me. So either you can wait here and tell ’em why yer impersonatin’ an officer, or you can beat it, you jerk.”

  Rivers pondered the situation for about half a second, then wisely chose to bolt. The old man cackled and shook as he watched him scramble down the street. He loved his job.

  Charles finished counting the money, at last. “Congratulations, Morgan, it’s all here,” he announced.

  “Told you it was.”

  “Yes, but you lied about so many other things, I wanted to be sure.”

  “It’s cold in here,” Morgan whined, slapping his arms for effect. “Could I have my jacket back?”

  Charles laughed. “That was clumsy, Morgan. I was wondering where the bug is.”

  “All right. Just get on with it.”

  “One question before I start.”

  “Do I get a choice?”

  “No. Who are you working for?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Then tell me this. Do these people intend to hurt Jack?”

  Morgan weighed the question before he answered. What did Charles want? Wiley hurt, or just smeared? He took a gamble and said, “They intend to mess him up good.”

  “Damn, that’s great. Just what I was hoping,” Charles said. Morgan could almost hear the smile on Charles’s lips.

  A notebook and pencil slid under the separation panel. “It’s a long story and you might want to take notes,” Charles suggested. “As you know, Jack got out of the Army in 1992, a decorated war hero, hungry to get rich. After he got his business degree, a classmate from Princeton arranged an introduction for Jack at Primo Investments. Let’s, uh, let’s say this guy’s name was Ted.”

  “Ted what?”

  “Just Ted,” Charles replied coldly. “So Ted told Primo’s CEO that our boy Jack was a stand-up guy, an all-American boy—Primo would be lucky to get him, he said. So Jack got a few interviews, and, naturally, our boy impressed everybody. The CEO started him as an associate, at 120 grand a year. He placed him in portfolio analysis, doing dreary back-office work, but a perfect place to break in a novice, to learn the nuts and bolts. And, naturally, Jack attacked his work with a vengeance and continued to make a grand impression.”

  “We already know about his history at Primo,” Morgan interrupted.

  After a brief pause, Charles asked, “And what did they tell you, Morgan? No, let me guess. They loved Jack.”

  “Pretty much, yeah.”

  “That’s true. They did love Jack, in the beginning. After only six months he got a big promotion and another bump in salary. Better yet, they switched him into client accounts in the wealth management section. Understand, Morgan, that for a firm like Primo, only the best and brightest work with clients. Geeks and antisocials are hidden, kept in the back rooms. See, Primo won’t touch you as a client unless you have at least a hundred million to invest and people with that kind of money aren’t easily impressed. But of course Jack is a master at good impressions. In no time, he was managing about four big accounts, and he began bagging new ones. He brought in three that first year. Three! Jack, you see, was a natural…” Charles petered off, having made his point.

  “You’re wasting my time,” Morgan interrupted again. “I told you, Primo said the guy was a stud.”

  “I know you did.”

  “They even threw a
one million bonus in his lap the day he left. That’s what I call love.”

  They heard the bathroom door open, the sound of footsteps, then the noises of a man emptying his bladder and humming a show tune to himself, followed by a noisy, high-powered flush. They stayed quiet until the door closed again.

  “About the bonus, we’ll talk about it later,” Charles promised, sounding mysterious. “Anyway, in the winter of 1994, Jack was out in the Hamptons dining with a client when Edith Warbinger joined their table. Edith was eighty-three, a very pleasant but doddering old widow. Jack’s client thought he was doing her a favor introducing her to Jack. She said she had no children, no close relatives, nobody to turn to. Her husband had been an early investor in IBM. His father had left him a few thousand shares, dating back to the twenties. The son was a department store manager, without a clue how the market worked, so he did the easy thing and adopted Pop’s investing habit. A lifelong skinflint, he plowed in everything he had, every spare nickel and penny, and without selling a share, rode it all to the top. When he finally cashed out, even after a whopping tax bill, he was worth over three hundred million.”

  “We should all be so lucky.”

  “And like all the nouveau riche, he went on a giddy splurge. He promptly bought a big house in the Hamptons, a bigger yacht, a fleet of Mercedes, all the trappings of long-denied wealth.” Charles paused for a moment then chuckled. “Two months later, an aneurysm struck, and he was dead.”

  “The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away,” Morgan couldn’t resist saying.

  “But he doesn’t really look after fools and idiots. See, poor old Edith didn’t understand squat about money. The hubby had handled everything. A controlling bastard, he kept her on a leash, gave her a stingy budget and watched how she spent every penny. Now suddenly the hubbie’s dead and she’s rolling in dough, three hundred million without a clue how to handle it, and along comes Jack. Smiling, confident Jack. Don’t worry, he tells her, he’ll take care of everything. Edith, naturally, succumbed to his charms and turned over her whole fortune to him.”

  “Spell Warbinger,” was all Morgan said.

  Charles did, then picked up where he left off. “So Jack sets up the standard arrangement in such cases, a paying trust. Jack oversaw the investments and handled the monthly disbursements. Edith got a monthly allowance of three hundred thou to do whatever her heart desired. The rest of the earnings, which were considerable, were plowed into more investments. Even that proved too much for her to handle. Turns out poor Edith had Parkinson’s and it was progressing fast. Soon all her bills and fiduciary responsibilities were transferred to Jack.”